that we don’t rule the night

Darryl Erentzen
you come back to me
in the scent of damp jeans,
with that other fragrance
I could never decide wasn’t perfume,
lingering for decades,
making my heart race.

I left on foot
for the last time,
drunken you in the arms of a friend,
– my gift –
out the side entrance,
down a drive
to a path
between fence
and shed
away.